


Tumbling Down

by katonline



Series: South Downs [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Breaking Up & Making Up, F/M, Friendship, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Marriage, Mutual Pining, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Two Dumb Pine Trees
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-08-11 02:10:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20145856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katonline/pseuds/katonline
Summary: When summer finally rolls in and lays heavy on the South Downs, he realizes he’s lonely. While most demons are solitary creatures, Crowley is not; just another way he doesn’t fit the mold. Without thinking, he picks up his phone, meaning to call Aziraphale - wants to tell him all about the cottage, what he’s done, what he’s made. Pain brings him up short. He can’t call him - literally, because he never added Aziraphale's number to this new mobile; but it’s more than that, of course. The angel doesn’t want what Crowley aches to give, holding out to him in two shaking hands.You go too fast for me.So he racks his brain for an alternative, trying to come up with someone to share his accomplishments with. After a week, he lands on the witch. She, too, can make things grow. He dials the operator, asks for Tadfield, Jasmine Cottage. The witch answers. She doesn’t sound surprised.I’d love to come see what you’ve done with the place.Crowley, frustrated by Aziraphale's continued hesitance, attempts to make a new life for himself after the Apocalypse-that-Wasn't.





	1. i.

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to see Crowley get some love outside of Aziraphale (and with him too, of course). And I cannot get over these two pine trees. So here we are. I am breaking this into three chapters because I think it helps with pacing, hopefully you will agree. There are a few flash backs in this I've tried to call out that hopefully won't be confusing or disruptive; the main narrative takes place from March 2020 to May 2021. There are some tiny callbacks to my other GOmens fic but the two are not Officially Related.
> 
> Thank you for reading, as always, it is so very appreciated! And thank you to the near-constant flow of inspiration in the form of fan art, fics, gifsets, etc that this beautiful fandom is churning out. Everyone I have encountered is both talented and generous and just. Wonderful. It's really magical to be a little tiny part of.
> 
> Title taken from "The Ship Song" by Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds, which is ineffable husbands all over.

_March 2020_

The gate squeals on its hinges, forced open abruptly, its contents exposed without warning.

“I know that feeling,” Crowley says, mouth a grim line, slipping into the garden. Italian leather boots crunch over long-dead leaves and kick aside stones as he slouches to the front door. It’s faded, paint peeling in places, and Crowley’s yellow eyes regard it skeptically. The iron key is heavy in the palm of his hand.

He bought this place, sight unseen, after their last day together. It’s falling down, the realtor said, and is off the beaten path: a long walk into town. It will take some time to be livable. But Crowley is here without a single workman. He’s got all the time in the world. Eternity, as a matter of fact.

He doesn’t need any help, just a change of address. He can’t bear going back to his Mayfair flat - can’t bear going anywhere at all in London, if he’s honest with himself. 

He can’t risk the memories.

He pushes the door open after fitting the old-fashioned key in the lock. It opens stiffly, moving along a groove worn into the pale wood floorboards. Dust hangs heavy in the air, motes glowing golden in the late afternoon light filtering in through dirty windows. It’s a small room, bare and faded, the kitchen and lounge all in one. Two doors open off the lounge on one side; a third door stands ajar on the opposite wall, revealing an outdated bathroom. There is no furniture. There’s only Crowley and the cottage, waiting to decide about him. If he can belong here.

He drops his bag to the floor, an apple tree losing its fruit.

***

He paints the front door green.

Day after day he finds himself outside in the weak spring sun, doing work he’s always considered too ordinary, too _mortal_ \- but amazingly, it keeps his mind occupied and lets him fall, exhausted, into bed each night without laying wide-eyed in the dark, reliving every stupid mistake he’s ever made. He plasters the cottage walls himself, white and charming and very much Not Crowley, fine dust coating his brick-red hair. He lays new paving stones. He cleans up the front garden, planting roses and trimming the box hedges and coaxing wisteria up over the cottage door. He hangs new shutters, banging his thumb with the hammer and swearing more than once. Slowly, over the next few months, the dilapidated cottage he bought on a desperate impulse become more: a warm, inviting home.

A few locals stop by as he works, exchange greetings. They talk about him in the pub. New fella, up from London: Anthony. Nice chap. A little strange. A little flash. Have you seen what he’s done to the place? Have you seen his car? But not married? And no children? Well, how odd. Oh, but I hear he has a godson in Oxfordshire. He’s putting in an orchard. 

He buys a deep, wide bed, and sleeps without dreaming.

The apple trees go in, and stone fruits, and honeysuckle vines twine in the hedgerow. He builds a fire pit behind the cottage, overlooking the fruit trees, lines it with river stones. It begins to feel like a place he can put down roots alongside his plants.

Something’s still missing, of course. But if he can stuff that burning coal down inside for long enough, he could almost believe he’s happy, here in the windswept garden of the cottage he’s built among the smoldering wreckage of his life.

***

When the summer finally rolls in and lays heavy on the South Downs, he realizes he’s lonely. While most demons are solitary creatures, Crowley is not; just another way he doesn’t fit the mold. Without thinking, he picks up his phone, meaning to call Aziraphale - wants to tell him all about the cottage, what he’s done, what he’s made. Pain brings him up short. He can’t call him - literally, because he never added his number to this new mobile; but it’s more than that, of course. The angel doesn’t want what Crowley aches to give, holding out to him in two shaking hands. _You go too fast for me._

So he racks his brain for an alternative, trying to come up with someone to share his accomplishments with. After a week, he lands on the witch. She, too, can make things grow. He dials the operator, asks for Tadfield, Jasmine Cottage. The witch answers. She doesn’t sound surprised. _I’d love to come see what you’ve done with the place._

She comes alone: Anathema. And if at first the two of them don’t know what to say to each other, the shared relief that still lies thick between them is enough to muddle through a visit. They make the too-long walk into town, these two who can’t quite pass as normal, sitting together in a worn leather corner of the pub and sipping deep red wine and laughing over stories of the people they know in common: Newt, the Them, Shadwell, Madame Tracy. Basking in the gratitude of having someone else who knows, really, how close they came to not being able to sit and share a drink in the company of other living, breathing creatures.

They walk side by side back to Crowley’s cottage. The summer sun is beginning to sink behind the rolling green hills. Anathema is looking at him with those wide, dark eyes and Crowley gets the uneasy feeling that she’s seeing more than the usual front he presents to the world: scales and black feathers and the visceral, lingering pain of loss.

She comes again, two weeks later, and then she invites herself back. She comes more and more frequently all through the hot, long days of that summer. Crowley realizes that maybe the cottage is too small, performs his first miracle: a little guest room, nothing flashy. As summer turns to fall and the leaves of the vines glow sumac-red in the hedges, and Anathema opens his front gate boldly without waiting to be asked inside, Crowley is startled by the realization: he has a friend.

He’s had only a few human friends over the ages. He tries to avoid it, honestly: it’s usually more pain than it’s worth. There was Eve, of course. He’d felt responsible for her. And she was clever, dead clever; she made him laugh. A lot of women have made him laugh, but none like Eve. In Crowley’s mind, she hardly needed the apple. Eventually, she would have figured it all out on her own.

He’s avoided growing attached to them as a general rule, because they’re so needy and jealous and petty and there’s enough of that to go around in Hell as it is, thank you very much. When you find one worth keeping, they’re dead before you know it. Worst of all, though, is the knowledge that hit Crowley right around the time of their first hundred-year fight: humans are always just a distraction from the blue, kind eyes hovering on the periphery of Crowley’s existence. 

Anathema is different. There’s quite a lot of Eve in her. She’s odd, for one thing, which he immediately understands since he’s nothing short of odd himself; and she's practical, which is rare enough in any creature, human or otherwise. Her clothes are all wrong, the eyes of the women in town tell him that. But the witch doesn’t notice, or - even better - doesn’t care. Her glasses are unstylish but her eyes are bright with preternatural intelligence, inherited from a long line of people that knew more than they ought to.

The first time she makes him laugh - a proper dirty joke that is all the more raunchy, coming out of her mouth in that round American accent - he is struck with a sense of love and then immediate regret. Because she’s going to die, of course. But he can’t help it. He’s been on Earth so long and been around humans so long (and there are _so many_ dull, cruel humans) that when he finds a special one, he falls right for them.

To their credit, humans have mostly stayed away from him too. The eyes, for one thing. And he can’t hide what he is for very long, brimstone-yellow eyes aside - maybe long enough to charm them, a night or two, but _Crowley_ always comes out in the end. It’s been the misfits who find him and stick around: the ones with something to prove. The damaged ones. It makes them the most fun, of course, and the ones with the most to offer. 

And here’s Anathema, waiting on his gate for him, fiddling with a crystal on a chain and smiling through her outdated glasses. It occurs to him that maybe she needs someone, too. Haltingly, bit by bit, Crowley relents: lets down his guard, opens his gate.

She tells him all the little things you learn in years of befriending someone, crammed into one hot urgent summer of _knowing_: her family growing up, her charismatic, overbearing mother, determined for her daughter to be the Anathema peppered throughout Agnes’s book: a claim to immortality. Scaring classmates and adults alike with her uncanny sense of peoples’ thoughts and feelings. How she was always too strange to get a date. Her parents' bitter divorce when she was in grade school. Never really fitting in anywhere. 

They share dinner, and coffee, and wine. One giggly night, they smoke a joint of cheap, skunky weed together, Anathema’s hoarse cough cutting through the warm summer dark. Her tilled-earth eyes seem to see right down into him, and although it’s unnerving, it’s not entirely unpleasant. After that, he starts taking his sunglasses off around her. She never comments.

Her relentless pursuit of his company allows him to reciprocate in a way he wasn’t planning on. Not all the horrible stuff - not the 14th century, for Satan’s sake - but in small ways, easy things it doesn’t hurt to give. He works to make her laugh, mostly, this girl who’s been far too serious in her brief time on the planet. It pleases him too, to remember the good things, good people. He delights her with stories of romps through the past, the ones that won’t scare her, won’t put him into a black mood. He tells her what they were _really_ like: Elizabeth I, Shakespeare, Jesus, Freddie. She’s so young, and he captivates her. It makes him feel useful, like the last 6000 years weren’t a total waste - and then he cuts himself off, won’t even let himself _think_ about Aziraphale, too afraid that if the name even enters his brain it will all spill out and he won’t be able to stop the memories from drowning him entirely.

It’s on a night where he is struggling to think of a single story that doesn’t threaten to split him open that she finally says what he’s been avoiding for months.

“Are you ever going to call him?” She asks suddenly, her voice flat in the dying light. They’re sitting in front of the fire pit, wine glasses in hand, the flames flickering on long limbs and warm clothes. Crowley jerks, yellow eyes meeting liquid, dark ones across the fire.

“Who?” he says, trying to buy himself time, even though there’s only one him she can possibly mean. She doesn’t reply, just looks at him, and in those dark eyes there’s something he can’t bear to see:

Pity.

“It’s getting late,” he says desperately, looking anywhere but at her, trying to get up, but the heat flaming in his cheeks, hot and humbling, pins him down. Bats chitter overhead, the fire crackles, Anathema waits. She’s good at waiting. It’s what her family trained her to do, after all. “And we’re getting brunch tomorrow. Don’t want to be, erm, tired for that.” The excuse is pitiful as the words leave his mouth, thin in the cool night air between them.

Under her inscrutable gaze, he feels so small.

She gets up from her seat and comes around to him, perches on the wide arm of his own chair. In a sort of terror, he focuses on the blue-and-black plaid of her woolen coat. He swallows. _Bloody tartan_. He flinches when her hand, soft and warm and so frail - so mortal - covers his own. He can feel the blood thrilling just under her paper-thin skin, the steady beat of her heart through the blood vessels. A perfect, ineffable design. He clears his throat, but no words come out.

“He’s been calling me since you left London,” she says, quietly. “Since before even you called me.” She bites her lip, afraid of his anger but unwilling to lie. Brave, even in the face of wrathful occult forces - but of course, he already knew that about her.

“And what did you tell him?” Crowley asks, voice strangled. He’s suddenly angry, jerking his hand out from under hers. It strikes him in that moment that, although he’s never told Anathema his history with Aziraphale, she’s obviously put it together. 

“I didn’t tell him where you are, if that’s what you’re worried about,” she answers softly, voice gentle, a voice you’d use with a scared animal. “I wouldn’t do that, Crowley.” She pauses, trying to phrase whatever she’s going to say in a way that will make him listen. “He’s... worried about you.”

She thinks about the angel, his frantic voice cracking over the phone. She couldn’t tell him what he wanted. His voice breaking, in fear and grief, brought tears streaming down her own face. His aura practically shone through the phone, blue and longing and shot through with pain. 

_Anathema...is he safe?_

_He’s safe. I promise you._

“So you’ve just been _babysitting_ me,” Crowley sneers. His eyes are burning, pupils slitted, nothing human left in them now. “None of it’s been real.” The humiliation of this, thinking Anathema is here as some bizarre favor for Aziraphale, makes him wish for a bucketful of Holy Water to fall from the sky and end him, then and there.

She takes his hand again. _She’s brave,_ he thinks again. “It’s real to me,” she says. “Just because he called didn’t mean I have to keep coming down here. I come because I like visiting with you, I care about you. You’re my friend, Crowley. I hope you feel the same way.”

_How long have we been friends?_

All the anger floods out of him and he sags back, the movement jerking her suddenly onto his lap. He’s avoiding her eyes, looking up at the stars and gritting his teeth, trying to keep from breaking entirely. But when she touches his cheek, says “Oh, Crowley,”; when she hugs him - the first time since Eve that he’s felt the soft arms of a human girl around him like this - he lets go. He lets her hold him, and he cries until he’s empty. 

“Will you tell me what happened?” She asks him, stroking the coppery curls away from his fever-hot forehead, teartracks snaking down his cheeks like rain in the desert. 

“Honestly, there’s not much to tell,” Crowley replies, looking away. “We just want different things.”

***

_March 2020_

Crowley takes a deep breath and summons all his nerve. Aziraphale’s guileless blue eyes are more intimidating than any demonic army. It’s worse than that day in the park last October. He shakes his head before he can dwell on _that_ unmitigated disaster, barrels onward instead. 

“I need you to tell me. Is it because...well, is it me? This form? I could switch it up, it’s been a while, good to mix things up a bit. If you’d like. If...if that’s what you need.” He tries, desperately, to keep his face neutral but Aziraphale’s expression mirrors the naked grief Crowley knows he’s projecting. Already he’s mentally flicking through his wardrobe, wondering how long to grow his hair, the changes in his body that will be simple enough to make. Gender has never held Crowley back, and certainly won’t if it’s what Aziraphale wants. 

“No! No, darling, don’t ever think that.” Aziraphale closes the door, locks it behind him. “You’re lovely, Crowley, I don’t want anything to change.” He thumps heavily down onto the sofa, snaps his fingers, and begins to pour heavy glugs of pinot noir into the fine glasses he’s just miracled into being. Crowley frowns, watching the way the crystal trembles as he hands the wine across. For once, he doesn’t take the proffered glass. Aziraphale sets it on the table instead, clutching his own like a shield. 

“Well, what is it, then?” He tries not to scowl. “Because I thought we understood one another. I know there have been others, and maybe I don’t measure up, but I thought...”

“Crowley, that’s ancient history. Don’t be ridiculous.” Aziraphale’s eyes are two warnings but Crowley plows ahead, relentless in his own growing insecurity. 

“Regardless. There was David, wasn’t there, and then that painter in Florence, and then there was the pretty boy knight. And the priest. Two priests, weren’t there? Suppose it’s pious, if it’s priests and an angel. And then there was Marlowe -”

“That was one time, Crowley, really -”

“And Wilde.” It comes out with venom, spat from fangs with deadly accuracy. Oscar’s always been a sore point between them. 

Silence wraps around them, brittle and full of hurt. 

“My dear, are you quite finished?” The tone is prim but Aziraphale’s cheeks are pink from more than just the wine. “Why are you bringing all this up now?”

“Because that’s the _fifth_ time we’ve been out this month and you won’t even so much as let me put my bloody arm around you!” Crowley shouts, voice sliding up an octave in a way that cocks Aziraphale’s eyebrow, irritating Crowley even more. “Because I love you, you daft bastard, and you won’t let me show it without pushing me away!”

Aziraphale exhales, shakily, hiding his eyes under lowered eyelashes and his wobbling mouth behind the rim of the wine glass. 

“It’s not you,” he says finally, voice gravelly and full of what sounds to Crowley like regret. “I’m sorry, my dear, it’s not you. It’s not that I don’t love going places with you, having dinner or seeing a show or just taking a stroll. I do, I adore all that. I adore _you_, Crowley, you know that. I’m just afraid. Of...well.” And at this, he raises his eyes significantly, at the same time gesturing downward. Crowley’s eyes open wide. If there’s one thing Crowley was expecting, it’s not fear of Heaven and Hell. 

His own innumerable shortcomings giving Aziraphale pause, yes. His painful inadequacy against Aziraphale’s genuine, _radiant_ existence - that would be understandable. Crowley's utter predictability, perhaps, his own ageless self-loathing. Yet he finds that he’s helpless in the face of this, has nothing he can offer to an angel accustomed to being afraid, even though Crowley is no stranger to soul-clenching anxiety.

_It’s my own stupid fault,_ he realizes._After we switched back, all my talk about the Big One, how they’d only leave us alone for a bit. I was scared then, too. I thought you’d get over it, but it’s been eating away at you. You’ve still not come through it. I settled into freedom, but doubt grew inside of you, didn’t it, because of what I said. It’s me. I’ve spoiled it all._

_I should have told you what they said, when they thought they had you. How little Heaven values you, the only angel worth a damn._

_Gently,_ he whispers to himself, _gently now_. But of course he can’t go gently, can’t do anything but hurtle straight ahead like a freight train now that he’s started. Because his mind and body, for 6000 years and counting, have sought out Aziraphale with single-minded purpose, like a sapling straining towards the sun. He wants to shake him, and kiss him, and laugh at him, and reassure him: all at once. How can Aziraphale expect him to keep living like this? 

It’s unsustainable. The words tumble out of him, a river breaching a dam 

“I’ve waited for so long, angel, and I told myself I could wait forever. Eternity. Truly. It didn’t matter to me. But I can’t bear only being able to touch you when we are alone like this, now that we’ve told each other how we feel. It’s torture, Aziraphale, being so close to you and not being able to take your hand without you flinching. Even here in the bookshop sometimes I catch you peering into corners. We’re well shot of them. We’re too much trouble. I was wrong, they don’t want anything to do with the pair of us. Can’t you just _relax_?” 

He shakes his white-gold head, eyes unearthly and soft, and Crowley hates himself for asking for this, something he knows Aziraphale would give to him if he could. And yet he has to ask. He’ll burn to ash if he has to sit another afternoon in St James’s feeding the bloody ducks without even being able to rest his hand on the angel’s thigh, press his lips against his temple, inhale deeply the indescribable scent of that swans-down hair. 

“My dear,” the response is so faint he leans forward to hear clearly. “If you think it’s intolerable to keep it private, imagine what it would feel like if they were to take more drastic measures. If they were to take it up with an even Higher power.” He swallows thickly. “Crowley, I can’t bear to think about -“ 

“But that’s exactly my point!” Crowley exclaims, slamming his palms down on the table between them. Aziraphale starts and Crowley immediately regrets it, instead seizing Aziraphale’s warm, dry hands in his own, chafing them together. “Don’t you see? They’re not going to get the Big Bosses involved. They don’t want to admit they’ve been hoyed over by two nonentities like you and me.” Aziraphale’s lips twitch at that, a ghost of a smile. “And anyway, what’re you always banging on about - the ineffability of it all! That’s the thing! Don’t you think, if She’s got it on lock and sees how it all ends, She’s seen this coming? You’d get a commendation, surely, not a bollocking off. Loving the unlovable -“ 

“You’re not unlovable,” Aziraphale interrupts. Crowley waves the old familiar protest away, refusing to be sidetracked. 

“Don’t you think we’ve earned it? After the efficient way we’ve been wiling and thwarting, not to mention saving the bloody Earth and all of it?” He stops Aziraphale with a look. “Don’t say Adam saved it, we were there. We helped. Big, esssssential role. Couldn’t have happened without us. The incompetents the job needed.” He takes a deep breath. “Please, Aziraphale. I don’t want to just be...be....blessed _work associates_ in public, only getting to love you in the dark. And hey, if you’re right and this _wasn’t_ the big one? If there’s something else percolating in the bloody Great Plan? I can’t spend another moment of eternity - or life, or whatever we’ve got - not telling bloody everyone how much I absolutely love you. I’m not afraid of what Upstairs or Downstairs will do, I’m afraid of spending one more second without you. I don’t want to waste a single moment pretending I want to be anywhere else but with you. And we don’t have to stay in London if it’s too much, if it feels too exposed. Let’s go somewhere totally new. It can be somewhere just for us. Anywhere you want to go.” 

He waits. The angel should like this: he’s normally the one for words, for big declarations, for _nice_ and _good_and _love_. And maybe Crowley doesn’t need a heart, but it’s racing nonetheless, waiting for Aziraphale to catch up. 

Aziraphale looks at him, helplessly, and his hands go limp in Crowley’s. He knows, then. It’s not enough. 

He, Crowley, is not enough. 

“Please,” he says - begs - voice breaking. 

“I’m...so sorry, my dear,” and somehow the angel says it without a quiver or even a whimper. Maybe Aziraphale’s blue eyes are wet, but Crowley can’t tell because to him the bookshop is burning again. He stands quickly, knocking over the table, sending papers flying and wine glasses shattering to the floor. Aziraphale looks as if he wants to stand, too, but something enormous and invisible is holding him down. 

“I can’t do this anymore, angel,” Crowley says roughly. _Finish this mess_, he hisses fiercely even as another internal voice screams at him to take it back, take it _back_, of course it’s all right, of course he’ll stay, they’ll go as slow as Aziraphale wants. “I -” 

He can’t think of anything to say that will hurt Aziraphale as much as the current ripping feeling in his gut. So he stumbles backwards and then bursts out into the busy SoHo street, mercifully clogged with people preoccupied with their own thoughts, far too busy to notice a broken creature with nothing to lose and nowhere to go. 

He walks blindly for what feels like miles until his feet pinch so badly in his fancy snakeskin shoes that he’s forced to stop. Chance has placed him in front of a letting office. In the window hang adverts, homes for sale: some in London but some hours by car, deep in the country, a world away. 

He opens the door. 


	2. ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three weeks before Christmas, Anathema arrives without warning as Crowley is baking bread. He likes to do things for himself simply because he can; doing things the human way. He hears the car in the lane outside and comes to the door, wiping flour-dust hands on the cotton apron around his thin hips, and watches her walk up the paving stones towards him. Her cheeks are flushed and there’s something different about her movements, something lighter in her. Something girlish in the normally serious, grounded woman he has come to trust.  
“Hello,” she says, breathlessly, as he lounges against the doorframe, and that’s when he spots it: modest, shining from her left hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two proposal stories. Anathema and Crowley bond, and fight, and make up. A little bit more Aziraphale. Head's up, there is sex in this one. Thank you all so much for reading!

_December 2020_

Three weeks before Christmas, Anathema arrives without warning as Crowley is baking bread. He likes to do things for himself simply because he can; doing things the _human_ way. He hears the car in the lane outside and comes to the door, wiping flour-dust hands on the cotton apron around his thin hips, and watches her walk up the paving stones towards him. Her cheeks are flushed and there’s something different about her movements, something lighter in her. Something girlish in the normally serious, grounded woman he has come to trust.

“Hello,” she says, breathlessly, as he lounges against the doorframe, and that’s when he spots it: modest, shining from her left hand.

“Bless me,” he says, and she looks nervous until she sees his razor-sharp grin, the genuine twitch in his normally sardonic smirk. She flushes and declaims, as if she didn’t want it, but he knows her better. _Yes,_ he thinks with surprise and then growing delight. _Yes, I do._ He stops her, studies her, and then folds her into a hug. She’s helped him grow more comfortable with casual, easy touch; his arms tight around her, nose pressed in the lavender-soft crown of her head, he feels a hot flash of resentment towards the gawky, unassuming man who’s going to take up her time and attention. 

Later, when she’s changing into pajamas, the pain hits him suddenly: sharp, like a rock thrown with great force. It winds him, long fingers gripping the windowsill until the wood creaks beneath them. Because there’s only one person he’s ever wanted to ask that question, and he would never have said yes.

Anathema, as if sensing Crowley’s pain - the damndest thing, having a psychic in your life - pops her head out of the guest room and watches his back, carefully, trying to decide if it’s worse to go to him or to stay away. She pads softly in bare feet to where he stands, touching the small of his back gently, feeling the tension under her fingers. With an effort, he turns and looks down at her, managing a smile.

“It’s not you,” he says, voice too bright. 

“I know,” she replies, “but I’m sorry anyway. If - if it’s painful.”

“It’s all painful,” he snaps, rubbing the bridge of his narrow nose. “It’s always been painful. I don’t know how to forget about it and pretend it isn’t painful.” He laughs, a brittle sound. “I slept once. For 100 years.” At Anathema's face he laughs again, more genuine this time. “I know what you’re thinking.” He adopts a falsetto whine. _“Dramatic.”_ He looks back out the window at the fruit trees, bare now with the coming winter. “But it was easier than having to plod through it.”

“Well, you can’t do just sleep it off now.” Her voice is warm but plain, one of the straightforward things he likes about her. “For one thing, people would miss you. The villagers would talk. And me.” She brightens. “I need my best man.”

He looks at her, words knocked out of him, before squeezing her in his long arms, tight as a constrictor. 

But despite being glad that she’s happy, it brings back all the knifegut pain of remembering how close he’d come to being in that same place - yet knowing, too, that the question burning on his tongue, if asked, would have only accelerated their inevitable parting.

He doesn’t sleep that night, remembering. Aching is a better word for it, really. _Burning_. Because it hadn’t been the end, but it may as well have. _Would have saved me a lot of fucking time._

Not that he doesn’t have plenty of _that_ to spare.

***  
_October 2019_

Crowley paces, if you can call his inhuman, frenetic movement pacing. It’s more like wearing a trench in the ground. His bony hands are crammed as deep as possible into the infuriatingly small pockets of his tight black jeans, where his fingers fiddle with a gold ring he didn’t own before this morning, rolling it over and over between the pads of his clammy fingers.

Aziraphale is meant to meet him, here, at the bench - their bench, he thinks of it as - and the thought of this fills him with both crushing delight and the almost irrepressible urge to vomit. He swallows several times, growls at himself. _Pull yourself together, for Go - Sat - Someone’s sake._

The raw autumn wind blows soggy leaves and Aziraphale into view. Crowley stops moving with great effort, wills himself to drop into the bench, arranges his long limbs with carefully-studied nonchalance. He’s sure that he’s holding himself rigid - deathly still, surely - but when Aziraphale sits next to him, he glances at Crowley’s lap.

“Is someone calling you, my dear?”

“Hngk?” Crowley manages.

“Your whole leg is vibrating,” the angel points out kindly. “You can check your phone, I don’t mind. I know it’s meant to be rude, but it doesn’t bother me.”

Crowley makes a pretense of checking his phone, grinding his heels into the grass below him, grinding his teeth together in an attempt to keep his nerves from fraying completely. 

_Too late,_ hisses a truly unhelpful internal voice. _You pathetic bastard._

“Nice day?” He manages to choke out, and thankfully it’s enough to divert Aziraphale’s attention from his red face. Aziraphale has produced a loaf of stale bread from a miraculously-deep pocket in his overcoat and is beginning to tear it into pieces for the gathering crowd of ducks. Crowley closes his eyes. _Wonderful. Bloody ducks to witness this, just the biggest blessed moment of my existence. Someone, give me strength._

“Oh, lovely. Managed to go the whole day without a single customer,” Aziraphale replies smugly. “And I was so pleased to hear from you, that you wanted to do the Ritz! Been ages since we’ve been there.”

“It’s been about three weeks, angel.”

“Well, a bit, then.” Crowley swallows again, trying to force down the bitter feeling that keeps rising in his throat. A black swan waddles from the bank over to where they sit, fixing Crowley with a distinctly baleful look, muscling its way between the ducks for its share of Aziraphale’s bounty. Crowley fights the urge to aim a kick at its malevolent, feathered arse. 

_Perfect. Absolutely fucking magnificent. Perhaps a fucking peacock would like to join us to round out this display._ He glances around. _Is every Hell-sent bird in the park gathering at this bloody bench?_

“Aziraphale - I’ve been thinking,” he begins, somewhat lamely. “It’s been a few months now, since everything. And it’s been going quite well, hasn’t it? All quiet from the Home Offices. I do believe we’re off the hook.”

“Hmm,” Aziraphale replies. “Do you? I think it’s just a matter of getting the paperwork through.”

“Paperwork.”

“Indeed,” says Aziraphale, “surely it will take ages for them to get sign-off on whatever they’ve cooked up to punish us with.”

Crowley gapes at him. _Not this again._

“But I thought - well, I’ve been staying at yours for months now, and no one’s come by…” he trails off weakly.

“Oh yes,” Aziraphale remarks, as if that’s nothing unusual. “And it’s lovely, truly. I enjoy your company, dear boy. But I don’t think it’s something that can go on indefinitely.”

He’s saying something else, but there is a roaring in Crowley’s ears that sounds, curiously, like the rising waters of the Flood. Aziraphale’s mouth is moving but, oddly, nothing is coming out. Nothing that Crowley can hear, anyway. 

He can see him, like he was back in the Garden. Glowing, and his eyes as wide as the sea. And Crowley knew he looked at Aziraphale the same way Adam looked at Eve: that same dazed, stupid look like a fish swimming up towards a glittering lure. Aziraphale, not knowing he was different, even then. Soft and kind and so _good_. Just standing there, exposed, like a gift - as if Crowley were the only one who could see him.

His own name jerks him back down onto the hard park bench.

“Crowley! Are you all right, my dear?”

“So you don’t think,” Crowley says conversationally, “that there’s any future for us?”

“Who can know?” Aziraphale replies airily - although there is a muscle working in his jaw, and his mouth is tight around his teeth even as he says the words. “But I think you were right, what you said, when you said perhaps this isn’t the big one.”

_Of all the times in eternity to fucking listen to me._

“So. Dinner?” Aziraphale scatters the remains of the bread equally to the disappointed ducks, looks down at his hands, bereft. Crowley stares at the ground even as Aziraphale rises.

“Yeah,” says Crowley. “Right. Course. You go ahead - I’m right behind you.” 

Aziraphale, for once, does what he’s told and turns to head out of the park. Crowley manages, somehow, to stand too although his legs feel as weak as water, as though he could collapse at any moment. With clumsy fingers he fishes the band out of his pocket and, for a moment, regards the metal circle in the palm of his hand where it lies, dull and flat, in the dying evening light.

He steps to the edge of the water and drops it in. The swan, hissing at his approach, suddenly breaks off; seeing the object fall from Crowley’s hand, it ducks its head, bill quivering, filtering the murky brown sludge on the bottom of the pond where the ring has surely stuck fast.

“I hope you find it,” Crowley growls. “And I hope you choke on it.”

***

_December 2020_

It’s strange, to be back in Tadfield after the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t. 

He stoops to enter Jasmine Cottage, nods vaguely at Newt who is faffing about with something or other at the kitchen table, and follows Anathema through to the conservatory. She’s got a few glossy, untouched wedding magazines - mailed over by her mother, she tells him, rolling her dark eyes - but what catches his eye is the well-thumbed deck of Tarot haphazardly piled on the glass end table.

“No,” Crowley says, flopping down on a settee. She sits down across from him, crosses her ankles, and waits.

“Oh, be a good sport,” she says.

“No!” He throws up his hands. “I don’t want to know. I’m not _meant_ to know. We’re not all professional descendants. Not interested.”

She shuffles them, feigning indifference, then perks up. “Oh. The kids are here.”

“Kids?” Crowley asks, before the door bursts open. A lanky, knobbly-kneed boy with wild brown hair and wide blue eyes leads the way, grinning, shouting “Mr. Crowley!” A dog follows at his heels, yipping in excitement.

“Adam?”

The Them are on him, swarming the room, squiggling up next to him and Anathema. Pepper sniffs at the wedding magazines but clucks in pleasure when Anathema hands her several crystals to examine. Brian, sticky around the mouth and collar, lingers close to Adam, a little in awe of Crowley. The other boy - the forgettable one - looks at him curiously before squeezing in beside Anathema. Crowley likes children, but these four are particularly boisterous. 

“What’re you doin’ here?” Adam asks, noisily sucking on a lemon drop he’s pulled from his pocket. 

“Helping Anathema,” Crowley replies, meeting the too-blue eyes of the Antichrist. Wondering again at the luck of him. Grateful for it, this little boy who wants only to be human - in direct contrast to humanity’s noisy, never-ending clamouring for _more_.

Crowley knows what it’s like, to be different than what’s expected.

“Yeah,” Adam says, “but why didn’t you come down last week with ‘Zira?” On the settee next to him, Crowley’s body goes rigid. Behind his glasses, his eyes fly up to Anathema’s face but she’s suddenly looking at a wedding magazine busily, flicking through the pages and steadfastly ignoring Crowley’s burning gaze.

“Last week.”

“Yeah,” Adam says, pinching a wriggling Brian. Dog whines and lays down at Crowley’s feet. 

“Aziraphale.”

“_Yeah,_” Adam repeats, as if Crowley’s a little stupid. “He came down from Lunnun an’ he an’ Anathema did all sorts. They went and ate loads of cake with Newt.”

Crowley slowly removes his sunglasses, yellow eyes burning, and glares at Anathema who still won’t meet his stare. The Them look away, all but Adam. The demonic doesn’t frighten him. He looks from Crowley to Anathema and back again.

“Oh,” he says slowly, the awkwardness hitting him like the smell of something rotten. “Sorry. I didn’t know it was a problem.”

“It’s okay, Adam,” Anathema replies, her voice tired. “It’s okay, honey.”

Outside, with timing that’s a little too perfect, the dirty gray sky gives way to fat, white snowflakes. The Them shout, scramble up, push and shove past each other to the garden. Anathema and Crowley sit in silence until finally, in a voice much higher than he means to use, Crowley spits out: “You went _cake tasting_ with _Aziraphale_?”

“Crowley, I -”

“_Cake_ tasting.” He growls. “With _Aziraphale_.”

“He called me again, and when I told him about the wedding, he was so - well, so happy and he knew someone local who does the most lovely cakes - he insisted -”

"Called you _again_?"

Crowley stands, wiping his hands on his jeans over and over. Bile rises in his throat. Humans. Disgusting little creatures, with their fickle hearts. Selling you for thirty pieces of silver or a mouthful of wedding cake. 

“Crowley, come on, it doesn't mean that I -”

He shakes her off, stalks back through the kitchen, ignoring Newt completely. He snaps his fingers and the Bentley’s engine roars to life, headlights blazing in the falling snow. She stands in the doorway in her stocking feet, mouth wobbling, as he slams the car door. Newt quietly follows behind her, looking past her shoulder. From the garden, the Them stop pelting each other with snowballs as the Bentley tears out of the village.

“Did he find out about…?” Newt asks softly, hands on Anathema’s shoulders, feeling her tremble like a reigned-in horse, ready to run. 

“So stupid of me,” she mumbles, turning against Newt’s chest. “I should have never gone out with Aziraphale.”

“It’s not wrong to have friends, Anathema,” Newt says staunchly, tipping her chin up, marveling as always at the soft mouth, the wide eyes. That such a remarkable person would want to tie herself to someone so ordinary as him. “Crowley’s...well, he’ll get over it.”

They turn and watch the taillights racing out of Tadfield. “I’m not sure he will,” she says sadly.

“Was it that bad between them?” Newt asks. “When he was here...well, it doesn’t seem like Aziraphale is the one who ended things. It seems like he wants to patch things up.” Newt pauses, eyes following the Bentley until it’s out of sight. “He seemed really torn up over it, actually, didn't he? When he took us out for dinner, I got the impression they’d been together for a really long time before...well, before whatever happened. I don’t think it’s right, that Crowley won’t speak to him -"

“It’s complicated.” Anathema’s interrupts him, mouth tight, and Newt knows better than to ask any more questions. He leads her inside, shuts the door on the snow.

***

She gives him a week before she calls him. The first one goes to voicemail, but the next time he answers on the second ring with a grunt.

“Crowley?” she ventures, a little afraid of his reaction. “Is now a good time?”

It’s Christmas Eve. He hates this holiday - if you can even call it that. Reminds him of that little baby, of what God and Her lot had in store for him. Even though he was born in March. The story came later. But the end result was the same. _What a waste._

_He could have come with me anywhere_, Crowley muses, mug of mulled wine cupped tight in his hands. _Any kingdom of the world._ __

_ __ _

“Hello, book-girl,” he says, voice quiet. The cottage is dark. Embers glow in the fireplace. He’s not mad anymore, not really. But he doesn’t know who is supposed to go first. In all his long years, he’s only said “I’m sorry” a handful of times. 

_ _Mostly to one person._ _

_ _“I’m sorry,” she says, making it easier. Knowing he needs it. “I should have told you that I was going to see him. But I didn’t want to bring it up - I know it’s still raw.”_ _

_ _Crowley waits, hearing the words at the edge of her pause. _ _

_ _“It’s just - Crowley, he misses you so much.” She stops. “Sorry. I won’t talk about him if - if you don’t want me to.”_ _

_ _“Did he ask about me?” _ _

_ _There was this one thing Hastur had come up with - he'd made it really popular during a particularly messy war in the 1960s, or so he claimed. He’d been bloody proud, the bastard. Little slivers of bamboo, shoved up under their fingernails, to make people talk - didn’t have to be the truth, either, they’d say anything to make the pain stop. He’d gotten a commendation, but it smelled like humans to Crowley. He’d been in Spain for the Inquisition, and later in France for the Revolution. He’d seen the camps in Poland. Humans are crueler than any demon._ _

_ _“Crowley, he can barely say your name without tearing up.” A sliver under the nail, but Crowley closes his eyes against it, a breath catching in his lungs. Asking, even though he knew the pain would slide in. Impossible to ignore. Hopeless to soothe, without tearing the whole thing off._ _

_Torture, that’s what love is. I should know it well enough by now._

_ _“But he did ask?”_ _

_ _“Oh, yes. He wants to know about your new place. I didn’t tell him where it is but I did tell him how much you did by hand. He couldn’t believe it.” She thought for a moment. “He wanted to know about your hair.”_ _

_ _“My hair?” _ _

_ _“If you’ve grown it out again. Like how it looked when Adam was born, he asked.”_ _

He has been letting it grow, as a matter of fact. Just for a change, he tells himself. Certainly not because, years and years ago, Aziraphale had cocked his head and said _your hair looks lovely like that, my dear_. 

_ _“He asked if you’d been eating. If you were lonely.” The pain radiates through his limbs. Of course he’d worry about if Crowley was eating. _ _

_ _“I’m a big, grown up demon. I can look after myself.”_ _

_ _She huffs a laugh. “That’s what I told him.”_ _

_ _“I’m sorry too, Anathema,” he exhales. “It’s not my business, who your friends are.”_ _

_ _“I never did it to try and get you to make up with him.” She pauses. “Although I think you should.”_ _

_ _“Cheers, Anathema,” he says, and she decides to leave it be for now._ _

_ _“Okay. Merry Christmas - can I say that?”_ _

_ _“Yeah, you can say that.” He chuckles. _ _

_ _“Love you, Crowley.” She’s gone, leaving him blinking at the phone._ _

_ _He pulls his knees into his chest and stares into the fire. Because even Anathema’s love, sweet as it is, it isn’t enough. It doesn’t fill him up, not like -_ _

_Stop it, fucking stop it. Not tonight. Please, not tonight._

_ __ _

***  
_January 2021_

He refills her wine glass, and they toast each other lazily. He takes a long, deep drink, draining the glass before flopping back against the mattress, rubbing his face against her soft thigh like a cat. He’s had too much to drink, probably. _That’s Future Crowley’s problem to worry about._

“How did you know,” he asks her, “with Newt?”

“Know what?”

He gives her a look, and she puffs out air, thinking.

“Well, I knew I had to...you know. Sleep with him.” She swallows. “Because of Agnes, you know.”

“Oh aye,” he grins. “Agnes. Of course.”

She swats at him. He can't remember how they ended up here, lounging on Crowley’s wide bed, his head in her lap. Rain pelts the windows. The New Year is still brand new. _Been a long time since I’ve had a girl in my bed,_ he thinks idly. 

“Well,” she says. “I suppose he sort of...grew on me. He just kept extending his stay, after everything with Adam. And one day, I realized I _wanted_ him to stay. It didn’t feel right, without him there.” She smiles, a warm glow lighting her cheeks from the inside. He turns to look up at her, wondering at how easy it seems for her. “He’s kind,” she continues. “And he’s good. He’s different, you know, he never tried to change me. And he loves me.”

“Kind. And good.” Crowley considers this. “Different, never tries to change you. And loves you.”

“How did you know?” She echoes him. “With Aziraphale?”

He’s quiet for a long moment, and she thinks perhaps he’s not going to answer her. But then he clears his throat.

“Anathema,” he says. “You’re the first person I’ve told in a...well, in a long time, what I really am.”

She is silent, waiting.

“So, as you can imagine, it’s been a long, long time that I’ve known him.” He’s quiet for a moment. How do you put 6,000 years of sharing a wavelength with someone into words? How can you describe what it feels like, those sea-blue eyes meeting yours century after century? Seeing the best and the worst of the world? Reaching out for that one perfect, unreachable hand?

“Well, actually, it’s a lot like Newt, I suppose.” He laughs at the look on her face. “Weren’t expecting me to _ever_ say that, eh? Well, it is. He was different. Right from the drop, which, believe me, is a _good_ thing. He...he’s always looking out for other people, you see. Not many on either Side who do that. He genuinely, down deep, sees what’s the matter and wants to fix it.” He pauses. “And I suppose I’m like that for him. I always want to fix things for him, too. We’ve just been following each other about, picking up each other’s messes for ages and ages. You get used to that. Come to rely on it.”

She waits, because there’s more, of course.

“And he’s always known me for what I am, but has never wanted to change me. He always called me by my name. He’s welcomed me, as I was - as I am. Yellow eyes, the whole bit. Even when it scared him. He kept on being kind to me, the way the rest of them never were. Not a lot of love going ‘round out there for my sort. ” He sits up, stretching, hair standing on end where Anathema’s fingers have run through it. “And it took me ages to realize he felt the same way. But finally, when I could see that he loved me - _me_, of all the creatures flung out across the universe - I think it changed me. In a way that was worth changing for.”

It's not the whole story, of course. But it's enough. Enough for tonight.

“I know I said I wouldn’t pry -”

“So don’t.” He knows she’s going to anyway. There’s no heat behind it.

“But I can’t stand thinking you’d give up on that. On him.”

“Just because he’s good and kind and different doesn’t mean it’s something that can work long-term. In fact, he’s told me very explicitly he isn’t up for that particular challenge. He doesn’t think Upstairs will let us, you see. Or Downstairs, for that matter.

"I’ve tried to change his mind. Play house, the whole thing. He’s keen when it’s just me and him... believe me, we’ve had plenty of chances to try _that_ on, over the years. Thousands and thousands of chances.” His voice is careful, holding himself in. “Especially the last time.” He swallows. “I told you about all that. I can’t stand to even think about it.”

“But Crowley - what if he’s changed his mind?”

Crowley turns away from her, faces the wall, voice rough with unshed tears. “I can’t handle any more back and forth, Anathema. I really can’t. And I’ve made a new life here, I’m happy here on my own. If he’s tried to call me, I’m happier not knowing. I haven’t turned my mobile on since I left London and I’m keeping it that way. I’m weak, you see, and if I think about what it could be for even a moment I’ll be right back there in his shadow. And I just can’t do it. It’s exhausting, trying to live like that.”

“But it’s been over a year since everything happened here in Tadfield,” Anathema’s voice is eager, “and you’re right, nothing’s happened with er - Heaven, or Hell; so maybe now he’ll realize you’re right and -”

“I can’t live with it, knowing I’ve forced him to it,” Crowley says raggedly. “I couldn’t bear it. If he isn’t coming on his own, free, and wanting to - I couldn’t live with half of him. I’m too selfish. I want all of him, no counterfeits. You wouldn’t want half of Newt, would you? To have him with one foot out the door, always worrying, one eye out for trouble?”

Chastised, she shakes her head. “No. No, of course not.”

“So I don’t ask,” he says fiercely. “I won’t ask again. I can’t stand it. I’ll never ask. One day, we’ll be able to pick up again where we left off, I imagine. We’ll muddle through. Like after the 19th century. But for now I can’t stand it.”

She covers his hand with hers, and he squeezes it fiercely.

“And so with Newt,” he says archy, breaking the silence. “Even if - well, even if it was because dear old great-great-great-granny Agnes told you to climb _that_ particular tree - are you glad you followed through? With the prophecy?”

Anathema glows red, coughing into her wine glass, glancing over at him with slightly wide-eyed shock and amusement.

“Is this girl talk?” She demands. “Are we kissing and telling?”

“If you like,” he replies, voice bland, belied by his smile. She’s thoughtful, considering how to best lay these secret, hard-to-say pieces of herself bare before the ancient golden eyes.

“It lit me up,” she whispers. “From head to toe. Really. I felt the earth move.”

“Wasn’t that just the Apocalypse?”

“It was more than that.” She finishes her wine with a nervous gulp, and lies back too, considering. She twines her fingers through his, tentative, but he holds on to her. It anchors him, too. 

“You don’t have to tell me.”

He closes his eyes, eyebrows knitting together. It feels like ages ago, now, when really it was what - almost a year? Four seasons creeping by since Crowley left London, left Aziraphale. Nothing, compared to the eons they’ve been circling each other, coming ever closer. “Feels like a lifetime,” he says aloud. “It was just after everything. I thought it would be the start of everything. Foolish.”

***  
_August 2019_

He still feels a burning all through his veins from having Aziraphale inside his body. He shrugs several times, trying to rid himself of the feeling. His body feels strange, too tight, as if trying on a coat you haven’t worn in years.

“Are you all right, my dear?”

“Ngk,” says Crowley.

They have just finished lunch at the Ritz: long-promised, lingering. And it feels, to Crowley, like the beginning of something new. Now they sit outside the bookshop, engine idling, waiting for Aziraphale to open the door.

And waiting, and waiting. But Aziraphale remains, manicured nails running nervously over the upholstery of the seat.

“Do you - that is - d’you want to come in? For a nightcap?” The words leave Aziraphale’s mouth and before either can reply, the car’s shut off and Crowley’s around the other side, opening the door for Aziraphale, locking the Bentley with an absent wave of his hand.

Inside the bookshop, in the dim light of the table lamp - “No candles, please, angel,” Crowley murmurs, stopping Aziraphale’s hands over the matches - they sit together, knees touching, on the worn-out sofa in the back room. Aziraphale miracles cut-glass, heavy crystal glasses of brandy onto the table before them, which neither of them sip. 

“So it’s done, then,” Crowley finally says, voice a mix of disbelief and joy.

“It’s done,” Aziraphale echoes. His warm, wet mouth is so close to Crowley’s. He wants so badly to lean out and close the gap. Aziraphale wets his lips with his tongue and it’s all Crowley can do to stop from seizing him and never letting go.

“We’re free,” Crowley says, voice lifting slightly. The cynicism that gripped him earlier in the park has lifted. The miracle of Aziraphale’s blue eyes are locked on Crowley’s face.

“It can’t be as easy as all that,” he whispers. “Not after all this time.” Aziraphale’s champagne-sweet breath is trembling with wonder and doubt. Crowley can taste it in the air, snake-sharp, and he’s close to crying with desire and 6000 years of longing. 

In response, Crowley surges across the seat and kisses him.

There’s no reaction, at first, as Aziraphale freezes, face tight with shock, lips flat against his. But in an instant, he softens against Crowley, bringing his hands softly against his cheeks, tentatively stroking his silk-soft hair. He makes a tiny sound against Crowley’s mouth, swallow-lost in the kiss, and Crowley wraps lanky arms about him, drags him closer, all eager limbs and bruising fingers and then suddenly Aziraphale is pulling back, lips parted, eyes dark with need.

“If we do this,” Aziraphale murmurs, even as Crowley reaches for him again, pressing hungry desperate kisses against his throat, his jaw, the corner of his mouth; “Crowley - if we do this - if they change their minds, and come for us, they could still recall you. My dear, Hell would destroy you utterly.” It’s not the first time he’s said those words. Crowley shakes his head against echoes of a painful memory, reaches for Aziraphale, as always, to wipe his fear away.

“It’d be worth it,” he responds, nuzzling Aziraphale’s ear, feeling a tightening in his groin at the noise the angel makes when he takes the tender earlobe in his mouth. “I swear to you, angel, it’s worth it to me.”

“I can’t stand the thought of a world without you, my darling,” Aziraphale says, tipping his head back as Crowley trails kisses down the pale column of his throat. 

“Say that again,” Crowley begs, as Aziraphale pulls Crowley hard against him, hesitation gone, hands steady as the demon slides bonelessly onto Aziraphale’s lap. “Oh, angel, say that again.”

“My darling,” he murmurs, skin rippling with gooseflesh as Crowley rakes sharp strokes down his back. “Oh, Crowley.”

Their lips meet as their bodies both rise. When Aziraphale fumbles at his hips, Crowley lifts himself without hesitation. Slowly, with a gasp, Aziraphale sinks inside him with a sweet, full burning. Their teeth clash briefly when they continue kissing, as though afraid to break apart, as if breaking their hold on one another will rupture this flimsy peace they’ve taken after the chaos of the past week. Crowley’s hands fist in Aziraphale’s hair, their chests sliding against one another’s, and when Aziraphale murmurs “oh, darling, _fuck_ -” against Crowley’s swollen lips the demon is undone, burying his own face against Aziraphale’s shoulder and coming with a sob of desire and need and utter unraveled disbelief that he’s here, this happened, these hands are Aziraphale’s, the scent that burns so familiar in his nostrils is not some trick from his brain but is, in fact, atoms of that beloved body pressing up against his own.

Tears slip out from his tightly-closed eyes and he grits his teeth, ashamed. He debates performing a quick demonic miracle so Aziraphale won’t notice until he feels a burning-hot sizzle land on his own skin. In confusion he pulls back, realizes that the wisp of smoke curling up from his shoulder is caused by Aziraphale’s own leaking eyes that the angel is hastily wiping, the viscous-gold tears smearing his round cheeks like sunlight bouncing off the ocean. Crowley catches his hand, leans his forehead against the angel’s. The angel’s tears burn Crowley’s skin like a lit cigarette where they touch him but he barely feels the pain. 

When Aziraphale speaks, after what must be hours, he says the words that Crowley has fantasized about hearing for thousands of years. He’s thought about all the ways his might cajole Aziraphale into saying it; all the romantic gestures he could make, the speeches that would elicit a swoon, or the amount of alcohol that might be required. Around Aziraphale he attempted to build a greenhouse, to force him into blooming on Crowley’s timeline. As if love was something Crowley could wring out of him.

Instead, here in the bookshop in the dark, it slips out without any great effort: a seedling, pushing above the soil into the light.

He should have known better. From your garden you’ll get what you put in: love, and care, and time. Outside the greenhouse, it’s on nature’s calendar, not on the gardener's. 

And some flowers can only grow wild.

  


***

_January 2021_

They’re both silent for a long moment, digesting what the other has said: the first times that mattered, laid bare for scrutiny.

“Didn’t have my great-great-granny’s blessing, though,” Crowley cracks, breaking the tension. It works. She laughs. He struggles to push aside the memory of Aziraphale panting against his mouth, pushing deep into his own willing body: _Oh Crowley, oh my love -_

“I have a question for you,” she declares, “that has nothing to do with Aziraphale.”

He arches a red brow at her, snapping back to the present moment: his head next to Anathema’s, snug in the warm cottage together, raw winter damp banished by Crowley’s carefully patched walls.

“I was wondering - Crowley, your garden is so beautiful in the spring, with all the trees and hedges flowering, and I don’t want it to be in a church - so, could we?” She’s actually babbling, eyes on the wall, looking anywhere but at Crowley. Since when is she so indirect? 

As if he’d deny her anything. As if she doesn’t know him, doesn’t know how he indulges the people he loves.

“Could we what?” He’s already smiling.

“Could we have the wedding here?”

In response, he kisses the backs of her hands. “Anything for you, you giddy hen. But you and Newt can’t stay here. I’m not in the business of listening to shagging all night. That’s your family’s hobby, not mine.” When she rolls over and hugs him, strong around the neck, he again feels that flare of emptiness behind his breastbone. He frowns at his own shortcomings, the pain on his face mercifully hidden in Anathema’s long waves of hair. 

It should be enough, love like this: this warms-you-all-through friendship, right in front of him, instead of his self-destructive constant knifesharp comparison to what - _who_ \- is missing.

The irony, of course, is that once she marries Newt - Crowley has to stifle a snort when he thinks about how entirely unremarkable Newt is, down to his very name - she’ll have less time for Crowley. Less love for Crowley. Less time and love all around, actually. And that will leave Crowley alone, in his cottage, ruminating on all his foibles again (and what an _Aziraphale_ word that is, no escape even in the deepest, most critical parts of himself): plenty of time to pick at the chronic, ulcerous wound where his heart is meant to be.

***

[On Crowley's old mobile, voicemail notification flashes.]

_Crowley, it’s me, erm - I think this is your ansaphone - anyway, I - please call me. I didn’t see the Bentley at the flat when I was, well, in the neighborhood today. Please, dear, would you stop by? I’ve gotten used to seeing you every day._

_Hello, dear. Anathema says you’re not sleeping like after - well - so I have to think you’re avoiding me. Please don’t, there’s so much I want to say to you...call me back, please. Ooh, or text! I can text now, Madame Tracy showed me how, her niece taught her and it’s really very clever._

_Crowley, hello, it’s me again. I’m sorry to call again so soon but I’m quite concerned because the Bentley is still not in its spot and I wondered if you needed me to water your plants? If you...if you’re out of town for a while. I do hope you’ll call me when you get back._

_Crowley, please, it’s been a month, where are you? I let myself in, my dear, I’m sorry but what if you were a horrid puddle of goo on the floor like that demon whatshisname - I suppose, though, if you were this message would be quite pointless - er - not that I wouldn’t still come check on you - I watered your plants, but I’m afraid they’re all quite wilted, I took a couple of the worst ones home with me. Please call me, I’m so very worried. Anathema says you’re all right but I’d like to hear it from you directly. _

_Crowley, please, I’m asking - no, my dear, I’m begging you to call me back. Or pop in any time. I’m always about. Perhaps I was overhasty, I’m sure there’s something we can sort out in regards to…everything. Perhaps we could talk about moving somewhere else? Please call me._

_Hello, yes, it’s me. Again. Sorry. I think possibly you’re not getting these at all. I just...that is...I mean to say, Crowley, that I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you and I’m dreadfully afraid that I did. It’s just I realize I was wrong about what would be worse. It’s worse living without you, my darling. Please, let me make up for what an idiot I’ve been. _

_Crowley, I’m sorry. Crowley, please tell me where you are. I’ll come to you, wherever you are, I don’t care if you’re all the way to Alpha Centauri by now. Do you remember that? We should have gone together, love. You were right. _

_Hello, it’s you-know-who. Don’t mind me, in my cups. It’s no fun, drinking without you. Just calling to see if possibly you’d be there this time. I don’t think you’ll ever be there, honestly. I think I’ve spoilt everything, my dear. I think I’m - what did you call Kit Marlow? - a prat and a fool and a nonce? I’m all of that. And more. I wish you would come round and call me that to my face. Even though you never would. Darling, I wish you would call me._

_I bet all these are from me, aren’t they? I just wanted to say that you were right all along, Crowley, I should have trusted you. Sometimes when I’m sad and drunk like now I hope you’ll listen to these and know what a pitiful mess you left me. Mostly I hope you’ve thrown this mobile in the rubbish bin somewhere. I don’t even know where you sleep at night, my love. I should have never let you leave that day. Oh, Crowley, I -_

[The voicemail is full.]


	3. iii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s collecting dishes off the rented trestle tables, their brittle clinking doing nothing to touch the stillness of the night air, when he hears footsteps behind him, a soft _ahem_.
> 
> He freezes, then closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He can smell the familiar scent of him, bookdust and champagne, tea leaves and saltsweat and rain.
> 
> With considerable effort, Crowley turns around.

_iii.  
April 2021_

Anathema doesn’t mention anything else about Aziraphale, not through all the months of planning: going with her to try on dresses, picking out decorations, hanging string lights, building an arch for the two of them to stand in front of. Fighting with caterers and fielding video chats from Anathema’s mother who gets on with _Anthony_ tremendously. Sweet-talking the local vicar, who hasn’t heard any rumors about the witch at Jasmine Cottage.

He stays away from wedding cake.

Suddenly it’s April: four weeks left. Crowley’s in town, picking up more floral wire for the trellis, when a blur of light catches his eye outside the window. Without thinking, he turns, and freezes, hand still extended to take his change.

A stocky man is crossing the street, a cloud of silver-white hair around his head like a halo. He’s compact, soft around the edges. Crowley makes a strangled noise and the shopgirl blinks in distress.

“Anthony, are you alright?”

The man on the street turns to unlock a bicycle and Crowley can breathe again, a great rush of air like coming up from underwater. Mercifully, it’s not Aziraphale. He mumbles something incoherent and drops the money at the till, rushing out of the shop, flinging himself into the Bentley, tearing down the high street back to the sanctuary of his cottage. 

He presses against the cottage door, chest heaving, eyes burning. He’s thrown the lock home but he’s still not safe.

“Fuck’ssssssake. Get it together,” he hisses, wiping his hands down his slack face. 

He thought he was ready to see him again. But he can’t face it. He can’t face Aziraphale.

Anathema asked if it would be okay, to invite him. I won’t ask, if it’s too much. He wanted to say no, absolutely not, you cheeky bloody woman. But instead, as if a stranger was speaking from his throat, he told her _nah, of course it’s all right, it’s your day, invite whoever you want. I will be just fine._

His breath slows and he slides down the door to the blonde wood, resting his head on his folded arms. The afternoon light glows warm on the soft plaster walls. _Bugger_, he realizes with a shaky laugh, _I’ve done the whole house in colors that remind me of him. I’m never going to outrun him, am I?_

His throat tightens, thinking of those sun-bright eyes, candy-floss hair. Almost against his will, his hand falls between his thighs, pulling down the zipper and sliding fingers inside, a long shuddering breath following the stroke. His eyes slide closed. A tipped-up nose, an anxious set of rainwash eyes. _My dear_. His hand tightens around himself, a half-swallowed moan rushing through his teeth. Chagrin and self-loathing, a wave of longing and burning desire mingle in the still air as he fucks into his fist, shaking with desperate need. It’s been so long since he’s allowed himself to think of Aziraphale that way - sweat-slick skin, swollen red mouth, even white teeth. His name on those lips, like a prayer. Eyelashes fluttering closed because of Crowley, only Crowley. The only two creatures in the world. _Oh, darling._

He comes with a gasp. It’s a surprise, just like the angel was. 

He tips his head back against the door, shame flaming up his neck into his face. _Pathetic_. Angrily, he miracles the mess away, grinds his teeth, slams his fists against his thighs. It doesn’t help. Nothing can chase away the memory of Aziraphale.

And now he’s got to face it all again. Somehow. Four Saturdays from now.

“Damn you, Anathema,” he says to the empty room - but weakly, without rancor. Hearing, infuriatingly, the angel’s teasing voice: _that’s ineffability for you, my dear._

***_  
May 2021_

She is playing with those damn cards, biting her lip, staring out the window at the orchard without seeing any of the trees. The gathering night is soft through the open window. The rehearsal is over and now all she can do is wait. It should be easy, but Crowley can see it’s not.

“Oh, go on, then,” he says, thumping down on the bed, crossing his legs underneath him and scowling even as she smiles brightly. “I know I’m going to regret this.” _Hell’s sake, I’m soft._

She straightens up, face straight but a smirk on her lips. He watches the spread of her fingers, fanning the cards out. A practiced movement, holding them steady, firm voice instructing him to pick three, turn them over one by one. Past, present, future. 

“Can’t you just tell me the future? Or Agnes?” He teases her, and is rewarded with a sour look. He relents, plays along, turns over the card closest to his left hand. It’s scarred and battered. _How long has she had these damn things?_

The first card depicts a man and a woman, gazing at each other adoringly. An angel looks on, disapproving. _Oh look, I’m here too. Being disappointed from Day One_. A curious snake winds towards an apple, over the golden-haired woman’s head. _Bloody Europeans. Obsessed with blondes. Eve didn’t look a thing like that._

“Well. Um,” Anathema stumbles over her words. “The...um, the Lovers.”

_The fucking Lovers. Of course._ Even Anathema looks a little embarrassed.

“I can see that, Anathema.”

“Right.” She looks at him full on, making her mind up, Crowley supposes, that if she’s going to do this she may as well do it properly. “So. The Lovers can represent many things but in this position, in the past -”

“Means I got bloody well rejected, yes, I know that bit,” Crowley snaps, then wishes he hadn’t when her mouth twists.

“No, it means that you possibly came to a crossroads, were forced to make a decision. Or it can mean something that’s holding you back.” She’s watching him with those dark, intelligent eyes. For a moment, he feels like she can see right through him. He shifts a little. _Why’d I have to go and love a witch?_

“Next,” he says in a low voice, and flips the middle card over. It’s some blonde ponce about to walk off a cliff. _Lovely._

“How flattering,” he says dryly, as Anathema’s ears redden. Well, he’s certainly taken her mind off the wedding. If he’s the fool or she is, he can’t be sure.

The cards say it’s him, for whatever that’s worth.

“The Fool,” she says, tapping the ponce, “is actually all about personal growth. New beginnings. And innocence, actually.”

“Innocent means stupid,” he scoffs, but she just raises her eyebrow at him in a way that makes him feel a little defensive.

“He’s the card of potential. And courage.”

“Ngk.”

“Want to do the last one?”

“Want to get this over with,” he mutters, but dutifully flips the last one. He expects _Death_ or _The Devil_ or perhaps _You Will Be Alone for All Eternity, Crowley_ but instead it’s two people exchanging cups with one another.

“Alright,” he says, “what’re these two twats up to then?”

“Two of cups,” Anathema says, and she looks intrigued. It’s a look he doesn’t like to see on her, because it means she’s about to meddle in something. “It can mean…” She trails off, eyes flicking up to Crowley, and abruptly something shutters in them, like clouds drifting across the sun. “Well, it’s a very mysterious card,” she says simply, and then picks all three up, adds them back to the stack.

“A very mysterious card?” He repeats, incredulously. “No, hang on. You’ve been trying to get me to do this for months, and then all you tell me about my past is that it’s a shambles, that currently I am an idiot, and that my future is _very mysterious_?”

“I think I’d better try and sleep,” Anathema says quietly.

“What does it mean, Anathema?” He matches her tone, yellow eyes level on hers.

“More love,” she says shortly. “Marriage. Sacred union. Eternal devotion. That kind of thing.”

“Oh,” he replies. “Well, that’s just tomorrow, isn’t it? Your wedding. That’s the future. I’ll be there in it.” He tries to think about a _sacred union_ that involves Newt, can’t quite contain an eye roll. 

“Maybe,” is all he can coax out of her.

To her credit she does manage to fall asleep rather quickly, long dark hair spread out over his pillow. He could easily pick her up and move her to the guest room, feel the warm heavy human weight of her in his arms, but he can’t bring himself to disturb her. Can’t think any more about Fools or Lovers tonight.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, he can’t sleep. After setting up everything he can, he prowls the cottage before finally his nervous energy spills over and he finds himself wandering the garden, past the ghost-pale apple trees with their clouds of white blossoms, past rows of neat vegetables and tidy flower beds. He walks for miles, out into the hills and down to the water where he sits for hours, watching the moon pull the tide in and out, sand glittering like diamonds under the stars. 

“God, please,” he whispers, although he doesn’t know what he’s asking for anymore.

Everything is perfect for tomorrow, he’s checked and double checked. As the birds are stirring and beginning to sing, as the sky lightens, he’s walking back through the garden, running his hands gently against the silky white petals of the trees, fingers tracing the rock-rough bark of the trunks. 

His, he grew these. He saw them safe to ground and cared for them, watched them thrive, has shepherded them through the winter. This house, this little white cottage nestled in the hills, is his: his hard work, his sweat and his sore muscles to make a place that is his in a way none of the homes over 6000 years have been. And surprisingly, it makes him feel calm. There can be a place for him, even without Aziraphale. _Even if the bloody thing looks like it’s wearing his clothes_. He can belong somewhere, even once his human is gone. Part of the earth, even just this small slice.

He wants to make something for her, give her something which can last. But he doesn’t own anything like that, nothing worth having. He didn’t bring anything from his old life here to the South Downs, and none of that is _him_, anyway. Among the flowers, though, suddenly he knows what he can give. Something beautiful and fleeting, like her. Something to remind him that even things that die are worth remembering.

When Anathema wakes, he’s leaning on the window ledge, gazing out at the garden. It’s going to be a beautiful day. He feels her eyes on him, turns to meet them: a long look, a look she cannot read. 

“Good morning,” he says. His mouth is soft and he’s not wearing his sunglasses, she realizes, even though her mother will be here any minute: more like a gentle garden snake then a demon in this moment. “Are you ready?” he asks her softly. In his hands, he holds a bouquet of fresh, dew-wet white flowers. Mixed in are a few yellow primroses, peeking out like stars. Picked by Crowley from his wild young plants, tied by loving, trembling fingers. From a demon’s hands, something beautiful.

She rises from the sheets, walks to the window, takes the flowers from him. She stretches up on her toes to kiss his cheek. He smells like damp earth and under it, something else - the salt of the sea, maybe.

She’s beautiful, he realizes, not just in the vague way all pretty humans are to him but in a deeper way: beautiful because he knows her, their lives intertwined. Beautiful because of the love that’s grown up between them. Standing there, in her nightgown, Crowley is seized with an odd mix of emotion: awe and love and regret. These mayfly humans, iridescent and ephemeral. Without warning, Crowley pulls her to him in a hard embrace, taking her by surprise and leaving her a little short of breath. She holds out her arm awkwardly so as not to crush the bouquet, a startled laugh forced out of her lungs. 

“Are you?” 

“Don’t you worry about me,” he says, holding her hands that hold his gift, heady perfume haunting in the early morning. “I won’t make a scene, I swear it. It’s your day, Anathema. I’m happy for you. Really.” His eyes are soft, and he twists a hank of her hair behind her ear. “So.” He asks again: “Are you ready?”

Then he straightens up, ready to face the day. For her. And with her, she reminds him, as she lays a slender hand on his arm. Standing together. Adding more joy in, not losing out. Gaining Newt, not losing Anathema - he tries not to scoff at _that_ thought. Hoping she won’t leave him, Crowley, even once she’s said the words.

***

She’s lovely in her dress: long sleeves, lace, old-fashioned but fresh. It suits her. He fixes her hair; he’s had enough experience with his own long hair to be better than any mortal hairdresser. She wants braids and curls - he’s had braids and curls on lock since Mesopotamia. On her head, he sets a crown of flowers to match the bouquet in her arms. Earrings from her mother, passed down through the years. Her mother hugs Anathema, hugs Crowley harder, thanking him in Spanish for making her baby so beautiful, for looking after her so well. _De nada_, he replies without thinking.

It’s time, the vicar tells them. Anathema takes his hand, wide-eyed, and he squeezes it. “Don’t let me trip,” she whispers, pale beneath her freckles. “Catch me if I fall.”

“Into the breach,” Crowley promises. He puts on his sunglasses, and they follow the vicar out into the garden.

The trellis is perfect but pales compared to the garden that surrounds it. The setting sun sets everything aglow. He’s been to weddings before, but none quite like this. He’s usually there to tempt, not to give the bride away.

He manages, somehow, not to look for Aziraphale. Amazingly, he doesn’t even feel tempted to. His eyes are fixed on Anathema, on the shy smile she has for him, on the glow she saves for Newt. He keeps himself so busy during the reception that he doesn’t have time to look: pouring drinks, dancing with the bride and her mother, clearing plates, chasing Adam and the Them away from the cake, charming all the Them’s parents so he won’t get strange looks when he spends time with their children. He puts on a good show, entertains admirably, a perfect host in all respects. He doesn’t look for Aziraphale at all, not even once, finding grim satisfaction in the level of self-control he’s certain no demon has ever possessed before. He keeps his eyes steadfast on Anathema and anything she might need him to do.

He can feel him, on the edges of his vision: a tentative cloud of gold, hesitant, warm, testing. His presence is a tap on the shoulder in a crowded room that maybe you’ve imagined. He grits his teeth. _I won’t look. I can’t look. I’m lost if I look._

It’s easy to look at Anathema. He can feel good about this, about being a part of something human, about showing Anathema what she means to him and to the world, even though the world doesn’t realize the debt they owe her. The spring night is as balmy and as mild as even the Antichrist could will it to be. Everyone feels a little warmer and loving and filled with more goodwill than alcohol alone can account for. Everything sparkles, just a bit. After all: it’s still magic, even if you know how it’s done. 

The guests cheer loudly when Crowley catches the bouquet. He bows with a flourish, careful to keep his eyes fixed on safe faces: Anathema. Newt. Adam. He smiles once at Madame Tracy, but the reproach in her gaze makes him turn away from her. 

Finally the music stops, the band breaks up, the guests depart. Lights stream away from the cottage. Anathema is teary-eyed when he kisses her goodbye.

“I’ll see you soon,” he murmurs against her ear. She nods briskly, unable to speak. “I love you, you beautiful girl.”

Finally he’s alone, the garden empty. A haze of happiness still seems to hang in the air. It’s late, gone midnight. The doors and windows of his cottage are flung wide; embers of a fire still smolder in the firepit. He’s taken off his sunglasses, no one to hide from now. A soft breeze blows through the branches of the orchard. He hums tunelessly under his breath. He’s collecting dishes off the rented trestle tables, their brittle clinking doing nothing to touch the stillness of the night air, when he hears footsteps behind him, a soft _ahem_.

He freezes, then closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He can smell the familiar scent of him, bookdust and champagne, tea leaves and saltsweat and rain.

With considerable effort, Crowley turns around.

Aziraphale is standing across the patio, haloed by the light from Crowley’s kitchen window. His hair is golden under the fairy lights, fluffy from dancing and laughter - the only angel and the only demon who love to dance, at the same wedding, fancy that. His eyes are inscrutable. His mouth is twisted in a little pout that Crowley’s impulse is to kiss. He sets down the dishes with a clatter that startles them both. Crowley clenches his hands into fists, nails biting so deep into his palms that it nearly breaks the skin.

Crowley tries to think of something witty or cutting or clever to say. But instead he settles on “hi.”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale says reproachfully, his voice thick with unshed tears. Crowley is suddenly dizzy as a shudder runs through him, threatening to bring him to his knees. He sways, stands his ground, plants his feet on this earth that he owns. 

The angel has lost some weight, the planes of his face more angular. He looks diminished, cut down. The shadows under his eyes appear deeper, too. Startlingly, he’s wearing new clothes - more modern clothes. A crisp white shirt, soft beige woolen trousers that are fitted close to the angel’s rounded thighs. Aziraphale follows his gaze. 

“Anathema took me shopping,” he says defensively, as if preparing himself to be teased. “I needed something...different.”

“You look nice,” Crowley replies, and he means it. Then again, Aziraphale would be beautiful in a garbage bag to him. 

“My dear, I’ve called you so many times,” he says softly. “But you never picked up.”

“Got a new phone,” Crowley’s pleased at how steady his voice remains. His hands are shoved deep in his pockets, shaking uncontrollably. 

“I asked Anathema to give me your address. I thought - I thought perhaps I might write you a letter. To explain.”

“I didn’t want her to.” He frowns. “Did you befriend her just to try and speak to me?”

“No. Well - yes, at first, when I found out you two are close. But then I got to know her, and now I see how lovely she is.” He clears his throat again. “She never did tell me where you live.” His voice is heavy with regret.

“She’s a good friend.”

“Quite.” The angel, it seems, is at a loss for words. Crowley sighs, resolve breaking, and he walks to the edge of the patio. Under a gnarled apple tree - planted long before he came to own the cottage - there is a bench, painted green to match the doors. He sits, pats it, and Aziraphale, haltingly, follows him. 

“I think that went rather well,” Crowley says, after a long silence.

“Yes, it did,” Aziraphale softens visibly, his eyes never leaving Crowley’s face. They’re on safer ground now. “The wedding, I mean. Just lovely. Did you plan it, my dear? You did everything perfectly. They were so beautiful, weren’t they? And the whole place - it’s just so loved. However did you find it? It feels so cared for, just...wrapped up so warm.”

Crowley laughs, but it’s more like a sob. _You beautiful, wonderful, insufferable...fool_. “I own it, angel.”

“Oh! Is this where you settled? I rather thought...well, something more _urban_. New York, or Paris, something like that.” He gazes around, taking it in. “But no, I can see it now. I can feel you in this place. You’re the one who’s made it feel this loved. I should have noticed straight away.”

“What do you want from me, Aziraphale?”

“Ah. Yes. Well.” Aziraphale shifts his weight, and it’s almost too much to stand, having this heavenly creature close enough to touch after all the days and nights Crowley’s spent aching over him. “Just - I wish we could have spoken sooner. Between now and - and when you left me. Or at least at the wedding. So much time wasted, my dear.”

Crowley sags, just a little. Barely enough to notice, if you’re not an angel paying minute attention to the demon at your side. “When _I_ left _you_? That’s rich. After all that, Aziraphale, how could I stay?” He regrets the tone of his voice, seeing how Aziraphale’s face pales, features crumpling as though Crowley has struck him. He rushes ahead, changing tack. 

“And - as for the wedding. Well, the wedding wasn’t about _me_, was it? Or you. I did it for her.” He shrugs stiffly, suddenly feeling chilled all through. “They don’t have very long, really, humans. I mean, we know that. You and me. We’ve seen it often enough. I haven’t had as many pets as you - I know you hate that term,” he says apologetically when Aziraphale scoffs. “Anathema’s not like that. She’s not a pet, I mean. She’s wonderful. I’m crazy about her. But it’s - well, it’s so short, angel. And at first I was jealous, thinking of having to share her. But I realized that isn’t fair, is it? To keep her with me, even though I love her, when I can’t be a partner to her like Newt can be.” He broke off, eyes dilated, nearly black in the dark. “To be on the same page, a match like that. To have someone there with you who understands, to go through it all with. To be there at the end with you.”

He locks eyes again with Aziraphale, deciding that the angel is right, actually, after all. It has been so much wasted time. And it’s worth the pain: Aziraphale is here, now, in this garden poured full of Crowley’s broken hopes; now is as good a time as any. Now may be all any of us have. _Let me be brave_, he thinks desperately. _Don’t let me look away_.

“It’s no different for us, really, isn’t it? It’s a long time, eternity. Imagine spending it without someone who understands. Someone who _knows_ you, and who knew you back when. Someone who remembers how it was.” Crowley’s voice is less sarcastic than usual, rough with emotion, his skinny chest heaving with the sincerity of it: the unbearable searing heat of saying, finally, what he’s tried for so long to say. 

“I can tell Anathema stories, but she wasn’t _there_. It’s something, isn’t it, to have someone who was there with you and remembers how bloody awful it was. Or how lovely. But then I look at them, at Anathema and Newt - any of them, really, any of the humans and their beating hearts and their tiny lives, and how utterly they become a part of each other. And I want that, Aziraphale, even if I’m not supposed to be anything like them inside. I am like that. I can’t change it, and I don’t want to anymore. I want what the humans are all so desperate to find, what they’ve all spent centuries banging on about. I want it too.”

He takes a deep breath. Aziraphale hasn’t moved, hasn’t interrupted, is watching him with shadowed, paindark eyes. “And I suppose - I had to leave London, really, because I realized that I couldn’t live the next six thousand years without it, now that I know what I’m missing. Now that we’ve gotten another chance, I want to do things differently. I want all the time, not just popping in. And not to be so bloody _alone_ in it all. Not just telling stories, but a life together. I want something like that. Nothing less.”

He turns to face Aziraphale, and, slowly, as not to startle him - _you go too fast_ \- takes the angel’s warm hands in his own. “Don’t you want something like that, too? Don’t you want someone who knows you better than you even know yourself? Someone, maybe, who even knows what you’re like, deep down inside, and who doesn’t want to change you at all? Who wants you to keep being the same beautiful, stubborn, determined, _kind_ person you’ve been been all along, no matter how many years pass? Someone who wants to see what comes next, and more importantly, who wants you to be there, to see it with him? I can’t imagine going on through the centuries without someone like that. Would be bloody unbearable, I think.”

“My dear boy,” Aziraphale answers, his voice a thread for Crowley to cling to. His resolve - his steely determination to _this time, this bloody time_ keep Aziraphale out - crumbles away, walls tumbling down, stone by careful stone that Crowley has laid in a feeble attempt to keep himself safe. They were no defense at all, it turns out. His heart, the traitor, was holding out all along. And Crowley, inexorably, gives in.

“Well, not _any_ someone really. Just _one_ someone. Someone kind and made just a little bit human, too. Someone who knows how I really am, down to the ground, and who I know right back. Always have. Always will.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says softly, the name full in his mouth. Crowley slips off the bench, sliding down to Aziraphale’s feet in their soft suede shoes, grasping the warm ankles like a supplicant and looking up at him expectantly, desperately, golden eyes hazy in the dark.

“Marry me,” says Crowley.

Aziraphale doesn’t reply. Instead he gently pulls his feet from Crowley’s grasp, sinks down too, joins the demon on the lush verdant ground of the garden Crowley has made. He leans his forehead against Crowley’s, the tips of their noses touching, and then he smiles: full, radiant, like the dawn breaking over the sea.

“You old serpent,” he says, a crack in his polished voice. “I was going to ask you the same thing. I should have known you’d beat me to it.” As if to prove it, from his pocket Aziraphale produces a gleam of gold. “I’m sorry it took me so long, my darling, I was so _afraid_ -”

He doesn’t finish the sentence because Crowley has crushed his mouth against the angel’s, silencing him, hands in his hair, a sob catching against the parting lips. There’s no finesse or planning or calculation in the kiss, though both of them have imagined how it would happen, this moment of reconnection. It’s hurried and frantic as though the two of them are struggling to knit themselves together, two pieces of one soul that have been incomplete for far too many centuries. 

It’s not as though they’ve never kissed before, of course, never explored the curious physical responses that touch and curling fingers and probing tongues can produce. Six thousand years is an awfully long time to resist the pull of a kindred spirit, after all, and Aziraphale may have been reticent in public but is as greedy and voracious here on the green velvet grass of Crowley’s garden as he ever was in the bookshop or the Mayfair flat. But something is different, and it’s not just the months of absence.

Crowley is dimly aware of the wind picking up but his focus is pinpointed on the strong, warm hands pushing under his shirt, sliding up over his belly, the silksoft lips moving down his neck to his clavicle, low-murmured words of endearment muffled against Crowley’s skin in a long-dead language. The angel tugs Crowley’s head back by his hair, nipping the place where his useless pulse slams against his skin, and wraps the red ringlets around his hand, rubbing his smooth cheek against Crowley’s blotchy neck.

“You are so beautiful, my darling,” Aziraphale croons and it’s all Crowley can do to stop from coming right there, fully clothed, barely touched. The angel’s hands slip higher, teasing a rosy nipple, breath hot and adoring against Crowley’s ear. He presses against him and Crowley presses back, shameless and eager, molding himself against the soft belly and the hard, thick length pushing insistently into Crowley’s own thigh. “Oh, Lord, I’ve missed this so badly.”

“Don’t go bringing Her into it,” Crowley objects, stopping Aziraphale with a hard kiss. He feels the smile more than sees it. 

“Sorry, sorry.” Crowley’s long fingers fumble with the button of Aziraphale’s trousers, so much less fussy than the old-fashioned trousers he’s used to. It’s almost indecent, how easily he slides them down Aziraphale’s sturdy legs, his greedy fingers brushing against the angel’s sensitive, receptive opening, tongue snaking against the shell of Aziraphale’s ear. He gasps and grinds his hips into Crowley’s, whose own cock is straining against the zipper of his tight black trousers. “Oh, my dear boy, I’ve been such a fool - oh, _fuck_, darling, you and your clever fingers -”

“Stop talking,” Crowley cuts him off, because any more tenderness and it really will be over. For good measure, he covers Aziraphale’s mouth with his own.

The angel’s slick mouth is hot, Aziraphale’s teeth scraping Crowley’s bottom lip. It’s getting quite unnaturally hot, actually, something like fire scorching along Crowley’s tongue and he pulls back, just a bit -

Aziraphale is glowing, from the inside out. Light is seeping from under his closed eyelids, seems to be radiating straight from his very pores. Crowley blinks, because this is certainly something new. This brightness, this all-consuming fire that has burned him for millennia - he only ever thought was inside his own small heart. Yet here it is bursting out of Aziraphale. _Same original stock._

Aziraphale’s hands grip Crowley’s thighs tightly, sliding the willing demon against him, burying his face in the crook of Crowley’s neck and when he murmurs, “My dear, may I -” all Crowley can do is nod frantically. Aziraphale enters him with a moan, this deep slow slide, Crowley gasping wordlessly at the sudden aching fullness that threatens to undo him. 

“Are you all right, my dear?” Aziraphale stills momentarily, hands reaching to cradle Crowley’s knifesharp jaw, burning with that ethereal fire Crowley’s never seen before. In the darkness of the garden, Aziraphale’s eyes are golden too.

“Never better,” he gasps, as Aziraphale moves deep in his body. Crowley’s hands find Aziraphale’s hair, tilting his head back, meeting those ocean-colored eyes mirrored with strange, holy light. Every thrust pulls the angel’s name from his throat as Aziraphale bottoms out within him, eyebrows furrowed, devotion naked on his face.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale moans, “Darling, you’re glowing.”

Confused, he moves to kiss Aziraphale again, but the angel stops him, again grasping his chin. “No, Crowley, look.” He gently tips Crowley’s face to the cottage, where the large glass doors reflect the whole of the night-dark garden.

He’s right. The two of them are entwined together, and they’re both lit from within, like fireflies or heat lightning or stars. From the distance, it’s nearly impossible to tell where one body ends and another begins. Luminous beings, light glowing all around them, and for one fleeting moment Crowley can almost remember what it felt like before the Fall.

Not because of God, or Heaven, or any ethereal, ineffable goodness. Because of Aziraphale. Here, in the garden, with him. 

Aziraphale wraps a hand around Crowley, whispers against his ear, “It’s been agony, Crowley. It’s all wrong without you. You’re right, we’re our own side. I never want to be without you again.” He runs his other hand through Crowley’s redbone hair, speaking in time to each fathomless thrust, curling around Crowley’s body in an effort to get closer with each movement. His toes dig into the earth. “I love you, Crowley, I love you, I _love_ you -”

Aziraphale knows how to worship, and weakly, Crowley lets him kneel before this, the temple of his body he didn’t realize he possessed until Aziraphale showed him. With a gasp, hot tears welling unbidden from his eyes, Crowley breaks open in Aziraphale’s tender grip. Dimly, he hears Aziraphale call out his name.

They collapse together, chests rising and falling shallowly, in the infinite softness of the grass. Aziraphale’s fist is still wrapped loosely around Crowley. Crowley’s arms are limp with release and tremble a little, tangled around the gentle slope of Aziraphale’s shoulders. He pulls Crowley closer, and the demon nestles into the soft down on his chest, hiding his face from the night against the damp skin that still gives off a faint lustre, shimmering like a pearl even through Crowley’s tight-shut eyelids. For a long moment, he cannot think of anything to say.

“After all this time, you can still surprise me, angel,” he finally manages. Aziraphale is pressing kiss after kiss against the wild curls of Crowley hair, his normal nervous babbling silenced for once. Then he tenses beneath Crowley, pulls sharply away. 

“Wait, wait!” Aziraphale laughs, Crowley blinking after him, heavy and boneless, the shape of Aziraphale still warm in the grass beside him. The sudden loss of his soft, rounded body against Crowley’s is an almost unbearable ache. “You didn’t say - right. Do you want this?”

He’s holding the ring, Crowley realizes, eyes on the sheen Aziraphale holds pinched in his fingers. He’s waiting.

“Hang on,” Crowley protests, hauling himself up, kneeling in the uprooted grass. “_You_ didn’t say if you’d marry me yet. I asked you first.”

Aziraphale frowns slightly, rocks back on his heels. “Didn’t I?” Then he leans forward. He takes Crowley’s hands.

“You know, back in the old days, it was enough to plight your troth before God and then consummate the marriage. Seal the deal, so to speak.” A smile quivers on Aziraphale’s mouth. “I seem to recall you making quite a declaration to me. And I believe the deal has been well and truly sealed, don’t you?”

In reply, Crowley leans towards him, a comet streaking towards earth. Aziraphale slides the ring over the fourth finger, closes his hand over the calloused palm. He lifts their clasped hands to his lips, and presses a kiss where they join.

***_  
May 2021_

Three weeks later, home from her honeymoon, Anathema opens the emerald-green door of Crowley’s cottage and nearly collides with Aziraphale.

Surprised, she steps back, catching her balance and righting herself on the doorframe. Aziraphale is caught off guard too: he’s wearing soft, tartan pajama pants and an old sweater, and he’s barefoot, reading glasses hooked over his ears; he looks for all the world like he’s lived here forever. Stacks of books that weren’t here before the wedding crowd the new built-in bookcases in the lounge. The cottage looks bigger: made for two. A thick blanket of contentment rests over it all. She takes it all in with wide eyes, heart racing.

_He’s stayed_, she realizes in growing delight. He’s slipped in naturally to this life Crowley’s made, fit himself in perfectly, as effortlessly as if he had always been there. But that’s not quite right, is it? There has always been a space for Aziraphale here: a hole that could be filled only by his own soft shape.

Before he can speak, a shout from around the corner breaks over them:

“Oi! Angel! Crepes are almost ready!”

Aziraphale opens his mouth to announce her, but she stops him with a quick shake of her head. Then she flings her arms around the startled angel, who hugs her back, just for a moment, genuine and soft and real. 

_“Thank you,”_ he whispers against her ear, a catch in his voice. “Just...thank you, my dear.”

She shuts the door quietly, leans against it, looks up at the sky. She feels Aziraphale’s gratitude like a blessing: thumb pressing in the middle of her forehead, warm and firm. 

She lingers on the walkway for a long moment. Through the front window, she sees Crowley stroll in, apron around his waist and hands sticky with batter, love sliding off him in amber waves. His aura is so bright she blinks. He presses an easy kiss to the angel’s cheek but Aziraphale turns, catches his mouth: long and soft and tender. 

Leaning against the gate, she fiddles with the zipper of her bag. Inside a velvet pouch is the deck of Tarot cards. She hesitates, then says, “Oh, what the hell.”

She reaches in blindly, pulls the top card, flips it over: smiles.

A woman is ringed by a laurel wreath. Four angels watch over her. A card of completion, new beginnings, a journey. 

_The World._

She stares at it for a long moment and then straightens up, feeling a tickle of amusement on the back of her neck: a pair of warm, familiar eyes.

“Hello, witch,” he says. “This for me?” Softly, he takes her wrist in his long fingers, turns her around. She takes his other hand and, wordlessly, slides the card into his palm. 

He’s made a new world, all on his own. She can see it in her mind: Crowley, coming to the garden where he could grow, shedding the skin that no longer fit him. Planting herself in his life, where she found another person who could see her - see all of her, straight down to the bone, without flinching or looking away. Who, even stepping into it haltingly, could love the place he made for himself and in turn could love her despite her oddness. Maybe because of it. Made room for her, and let her love him back. And never has she met a creature who needed a little love quite as much as Crowley.

And now a new World, for the two of them. A new start, on this little plot of land. Aziraphale has sensed it like she has, come seeking it out: the hopeful glow from Crowley’s scorching, generous heart. She can feel it still, a pair of arms around her: knowing it will burn on and on beyond her own life. 

She watches Crowley turn the World card over in his hand. The light in his eyes is different, somehow. 

At the doorway, Aziraphale looks out, sunlight glinting off his reading glasses. With a nod, Crowley looks down at the World with a quirked eyebrow and then a warm, slow smile.

“Ah,” says Crowley, his hand still in hers. “Of course.” He tugs her hand, turning towards the green front door, towards the beaming angel. “Well, book-girl. Won't you stay for crepes?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so many thanks to those of you who read this!
> 
> with apologies and gratitude to Mitski, Mika, and the dozens of magical GOmens fic writers and fanart artists who have inspired me, and to Terry Pratchett who I have shamelessly stolen a famous quote from (but since they're his characters anyway, I'm sure he wouldn't mind).
> 
> even more thanks go to @pythonissam for her invaluable skills as a beta reader and editor for this and many others she's helped with over the years.


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